


Marshall King of the Vampires: The Chronicles

by Kantayra



Category: Alias
Genre: Crack, F/M, Gen, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-12
Updated: 2005-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-19 03:05:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kantayra/pseuds/Kantayra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dark and riveting tale of how Marshall Flinkman is born into the world of vampires, manages to turn the entire Alias cast, and accidentally takes over the world. Not for the faint of heart. Parody, some random Sarkney that I just couldn't get rid of, the only time I will ever write something vaguely S/V even though it's solely for the purpose of mocking S/V, PG13. Beware: Silliness within! :P</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marshall King of the Vampires: The Chronicles

**Author's Note:**

> xmirax made me write this, after a cracked-out conversation mocking Teh Sucke that was 'Nocturne'. We decided that there needed to be a fic where _Marshall_ was the vampire, because...yes. :P A parody of...oi vey, let me see...Alias, vampire!Alias!bad!fic, BtVS, BtVS!bad!fic, Anne Rice, LKH, fangirls in general, every single Alias character that exists, and - oh yeah - me personally.

The Overly Pretentious and Far-Fetched Introduction

  
This editor upon excavating the secret vaults of one Anne Rice after the late not-so-lamented author was found dead, locked in one of the ‘show’ coffins she used during book-signings, found a series of manuscripts indicating that, at one point in time, the late not-so-lamented “Vampyr Genius”* had a passionate affair with the not-late-yet J.J. Abrahms. And, by ‘affair’, I don’t mean physical sort. Rather, they had a mind baby. Ms. Rice proceeded to write out this mind baby in a series of volumes, averaging one thousand pages each. The editor, grateful that Ms. Rice is dead and thus no longer able to make batshit demands that her works not be edited in the slightest, trimmed away all the purple prose, leaving each tale at roughly two pages. Editing is truly a beautiful thing. And so I present to you, dear reader, the now-readable Vampire Chronicles of Marshall King of the Vampires…

*The term “Vampyr Genius” was coined by Ms. Rice herself and, as per her legal action against other vampire authors, must be attached to her name in every discussion of her works. (See: Rice vs. Sane Vampire Authors, 2004.)  


Book One: Marshall the Champion (of Video Games)

  
“Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa!”

“I know, man. Isn’t it just…?”

“Heh. That’s trippy. Sort of do-do-do-do, Twilight Zone trippy.”

“You wanna see something even freakier, man? Look in the mirror.”

Marshall turned his attention from the grave he’d just crawled out of to look at the miniature compact mirror his new Sire was holding. There was, of course, nothing to see. Just the mausoleum behind him. “I-Is that…?” he frowned. “Wait, how does…?”

“Isn’t that just _awesome_?”

“But you can see me, right?” Marshall demanded, puzzled. “If you can see me, then I still refract light. Therefore, that light should be able to reflect off of me and…” He squinted and looked in the mirror again. “That’s impossible,” he laughed. “Completely impossible.” Then frowned and stared in the mirror again, just to make sure.

“It’s a _total_ head-game, man.” The stranger who, the previous evening had cornered Marshall on his way to his Mini and sucked the life out of him—

Marshall winced as his newfound Sire gave him a warning telepathic whap upside the head. Right.

The stranger who, the previous evening had cornered Marshall on his way to his Mini and _bestowed upon him the glorious and luminescent gift of undead immortality_ , was named Frank. Frank was a vampire who’d been turned at roughly the age of nineteen and who, Marshall had gathered despite the somewhat garbled manner Frank explained it to him while drinking his blood at the same time – neither the most effective way to eat nor the most coherent way to speak – was on an immortal quest to find an immortal companion who could actually challenge him at Nintendo. Frank liked to use the word ‘immortal’ a lot while talking around his victims’ blood. He also put on a bib before feeding for the very same reason.

Marshall had held the unofficial ‘number four’ spot in the world for Super Mario Cart for a brief period from 1994-1996. Frank had already eaten his way through the rest of the original top ten, all of whom had managed to accidentally stake themselves within their first day of unlife, and had turned Marshall in the hope that older Nintendo geeks would be less accident-prone.

Marshall promptly demonstrated that he wasn’t less accident-prone than all his predecessors by spilling the blood of the fresh young virgin Frank had brought him for his first snack all over his new white shirt. Fortunately, his pocket-protector had protected his graphing calculator from a similar bloody demise.

But, as Marshall’s accident hadn’t involved a spectacular fall onto a sharp pointed piece of wood, Frank had proclaimed him his new Childe and had promptly showed him the ways of the vampire (vampyr, if you’re feeling pretentious).

“Check out these two graves, man,” Frank said in his somewhat-stoned guru-like manner. “What do you see, eh?”

“Aside from the metamorphic stone properties – which always look to me like those old Spirographs. You know, how you’d put the pen in the little plastic circle, but it would never fit quite right, and then the pen would go dry after two days – which, really must have been some special kind of ink designed specifically to go dry. Which makes you wonder, ‘hey, why would anyone want to invent an ink that goes dry in two days?’ I mean, I guess it was the Spirograph guys, because those pens—” Marshall began, feeling the force of immortal life flow through him filling him with infinite freedom as he suddenly realized that he could – literally – ramble on forever.

“They’re, like, marble,” Frank provided.

“And the folds and striations clearly indicate they were quarried from the same source,” Marshall hastily added, sweat furrowing his brow. He _really_ hoped it wasn’t blood sweat because that would just be murder on his shirt collars, and it wasn’t like he didn’t have enough trouble with plain sweat stains in the first place. He swept a hand across his forehead. Nope, just plain sweat, thank goodness.

“They’re totally the same, man!” Frank announced.

Marshall ventured to raise a nervous hand. “I, uh, I think that’s what I just said.”

Frank telepathically whapped him upside the head, just on principle. “So…touch the angel, dude.”

Marshall frowned.

“Go on.” Frank raised his hand in a menacing gesture that only those who had black belts in kung-fu had mastered. Or anyone who had ever seen the movie ‘Enter the Dragon’.

Marshall owned ‘Enter the Dragon’ on both VHS (with a back-up copy) and DVD, as well as the documentaries on the making of and special made-for-TV movie about the life of Bruce Lee. So, of course, he did what Frank said. Not that anything happened.

“Now, touch the cross.”

Marshall did so and instantly hissed in pain, pulling his hand back. “Ow. Ow, ow, ow…”

“Isn’t that freakier than all get-out?” Frank asked rhetorically, leaping down from his place atop the cemetery fence with the grace of a leopard on the hunt. “So, like, what do you want to do next? Holy water? Or we could always go play Nintendo…”

Marshall opted for the later. It seemed less painful.

And so our saga begins…

Book Two: Frank the Stoned’s Sudden and Tragic Death

  
It had been a long time since Marshall had found a fitting opponent for Super Mario Cart. If there had been a Grandmaster Tournament of Super Mario Cart, Marshall the Champion (of Video Games) and Frank the Stoned _so_ should have been it. Because, not only had they been Nintendo geniuses as humans, but with their new vampire powers, they could now race along the Rainbow Road flawlessly with superhuman speed and skill. Truly, vampirism did enhance all their natural gifts.

Frank was also a delightful companion in that he would willingly watch the entire Star Wars Special Edition collection with Marshall, frame-by-frame, and critique the special effects George Lucas had chosen to edit and which he’d omitted. Never before had Jabba the Hut’s sudden appearance in ‘A New Hope’ been critiqued with such immortal glee over the fresh young virgins that seemed to just fall in Frank’s lap like apples from a tree.

Marshall had quickly adopted Frank’s habit of wearing a bib at all times, simply because virgins fell fainting into Frank’s arms with such frightening regularity, that it was always better safe than sorry. Personally, Marshall began to calculate in his head and had come to the disturbing conclusion that, if there were even a hundred vampires in the world who had Frank’s virgin-luring abilities, the ‘species’ as it were would become extinct all too quickly. Well, in the US, at least.

Asia was an entirely different matter. Maybe they’d have to go there for fresh virgins, except Marshall didn’t know any of the languages and that one time he’d tried to write a program to speak in Hmong – for the sole purpose of getting the owners of the corner Vietnamese restaurant to get his order right _for once_ – Sydney had just blinked at the program’s attempt to say “and extra soy sauce” and asked him if it was Klingon. Unfortunately, all Marshall’s attempts at learning foreign languages ultimately turned into Klingon. It was one of the great tragedies of his life. And unlife.

But, for now, they were content to play games, watch videos, and generally “fuck that shit up” on the web for the sole purpose of “fucking that shit up.” They were, after all, evil vampires.

Marshall had really gotten ‘into’ the vampire role and, finally, in his second month of undeath had decided adamantly that he needed a cape.

“Whoa. Far out, man!” Frank agreed.

They’d run through the night, silent as shadows, faster than cheetahs, and able to leap (four story) buildings in a single bound. Midnight cloaked them in its supernatural mist, obeying the call of its dark immortal childer as they set upon their nefarious task of breaking into Wayne’s Costume Emporium (And Party Supplier).

Marshall perused the aisles, anxious to finally find the garb that would make him a true Master of the Night. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten that it was Halloween weekend, and all the vampire costumes had already been checked out.

“Dude, it’s a lost cause…” Frank said mournfully.

“I’m sure I can find something,” Marshall said with a false laugh, searching most frantically until…

It was perfect.

Well, okay, not quite perfect.

What he’d _really_ wanted was one of those sleek black capes with the red lining. But those were all gone. However, in the far back of the 80s costumes aisle, he’d found himself a suitable replacement. And, even more miraculous, it was his size. He ignored the fact that that was because the tag indicated that it was a child’s costume.

“What do you think?” he asked Frank, wrapping his cape around his shoulders.

Frank blinked. “Dude…it’s, like, _pink_.”

“Only on the inside,” Marshall insisted. “And if anyone asks, I can always say it _was_ red, but then faded in the wash…”

“And the outside’s totally purple.”

“In the dark, no one will be able to tell it’s not black.”

Frank paused, his stoned mind working overtime to make one of his rare logical connections. “Dude, isn’t that the cape that She-Ra chick wore in that cartoon way back… _way_?”

Marshall shrugged sheepishly. “It’s all they have left. I’m sure no one will notice.”

Frank considered that. “You gonna take the tiara that goes with it?”

Marshall thought about it but shook his head. “That’s not very ‘Prince of Darkness’,” he explained ruefully.

“Bummer,” Frank agreed.

And thus Marshall acquired his soon-to-be infamous cape. But that’s not the story I was supposed to tell. The story I was _supposed_ to tell was how Frank the Stoned snuffed it.

So, yeah. As Frank and Marshall emerged from Wayne’s Costume Emporium (And Party Supplier), ready for another round of Super Mario Cart, they were accosted by a group of One-Time Villains Whose Names Are Irrelevant.

The One-Time Villains Whose Names Are Irrelevant was a vampire clan, comprised entirely of jocks, that suffered the unfortunate fate of being in the background of every horror movie, sci-fi show, and bad made-for-TV supernatural thriller, all without ever being given names of any sort. They weren’t overly bright, but they _did_ look like good thugs and thus served as an excellent plot device.

That night they’d come to the mall, cruising for cheerleaders to eat. The flaw in their plan had, of course, been that it was night, so the mall was closed and not a single cheerleader was to be found. As I said, they weren’t very bright. This made them mad, and whenever they got mad, they resorted to the only thing they’d ever really been good at in life: Bullying.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. They’d _also_ been good at helping grandma make doilies, even though they’d just sat there and made sure the thread didn’t get tangled, but grandma had _insisted_ they’d been helpful, dammit, and that was the only compliment they’d ever gotten in their lives, so they were clinging to it.

But, anyway, one stoned vampire and one vampire wearing a pink cape, both of whom came up roughly to their knees, were too good an opportunity to pass up.

“Check out the Geek Squad,” One-Time Villain Whose Name Is Irrelevant #1 said.

“Uh, actually?” Marshall raised a hand. “A squad would, technically, consist of more than two people.”

“Give us your lunch money, nerds,” #2 demanded.

“Dude, we’re _sooo_ undead,” Frank rolled his eyes and nearly passed out from it. “Whoa…” He fell backwards, but Marshall caught him and propped him back up.

“We don’t eat lunch,” Marshall finished Frank’s point for him.

“Thanks, man,” Frank agreed.

The One-Time Villains Whose Names Are Irrelevant frowned. They’d just used up their entire vocabulary. Finally, #3 came up with one last phrase he’d managed to learn:

“Oh…Oh, _yeah_? Well…you’re stupid!”

Marshall and Frank exchanged a look.

“Actually,” Marshall laughed in an attempt to lighten the mood, “that’s not quite right. See, we’re both highly-skilled computer hackers. You…can barely say three sentences. So the natural conclusion would be that you’re the, heh heh, ‘stupid’ ones.”

The One-Time Villains Whose Names Are Irrelevant just frowned moronically, Neanderthal brows furrowed.

“Dude, you have to, like, talk in a language they can understand,” Frank corrected Marshall. He turned to look at the OTVWNAI and said very slowly so that they could understand every word: “Your momma.”

The resulting violence had Marshall cringing the corner, his new pink cape over his head as the OTVWNAI seized Frank, pushed him around for a bit, and then shoved a wooden stake through his heart. Fortunately, they had the attention span of most jocks and had entirely forgotten Marshall’s existence by the time they were done with Frank.

“Hey, let’s pick up some chicks to eat!” one suggested.

And they all walked away en masse, leaving Marshall alone in this new vampire world. C’mon, don’t look so surprised. I mean, it was obvious by the fact that there’s no ‘Frank’ in the Alias-verse, right? Of _course_ , he had to die to further the plot. In fact, he might as well have been named ‘Danny’, if Danny had, y’know, been a stoned-out, video game playing vampire. So no tears for Frank, all right? All right.

Book Three: Sark the Vain (née the Evasive)

  
Marshall quickly realized that, despite his nifty new cape, he wasn’t exactly the scariest vampire out there. In fact, he was coming to realize that vampires pretty much scared the living daylights out of him. Or would that be unliving nightlights? Whatever. That was his first problem.

His second problem was that, without Frank, it was kind of lonely and boring being a vampire. Hunting had become harder since Frank was no longer around for willing virgins to fall in his lap. Marshall had resorted to finding a pretentious looking suburbs and knocking on doors, claiming he was there to “adjust the isobenzine valve on the wicket flange.” No one on earth knew what that meant but figured it sounded important, so they let Marshall in, and he feasted upon their families. It was a hard unlife.

However, Marshall had found a solution to both his problems. All he needed to do was find a “badass mofo” and turn him.

The logical place to carry out this plan was at SD-6 since every badass mofo that had ever mofo’ed had mofo’ed their way around SD-6 at one point or another. So, one night, Marshall snuck into the parking lot of SD-6 just after sundown and lurked in wait.

His first potential Childe was Brian from accounting, but given that Brian screamed even louder than Marshall did whenever he saw a bug in the men’s room, Marshall figured he could find someone higher up on the mofo scale.

Amy from human resources was out because, likewise, most people didn’t find really pregnant women scary. Marshall, personally, did because…hormones! With the craziness and completely random mood swings. But he figured he could find a badder mofo than Amy, if he just kept his cool

Number three was the charm. Just when Marshall had considered going to Jack’s house and knocking on his door, the perfect badass mofo exited the building and headed for his black Mercedes. Marshall was even more pleased to note that the path of one Mr. Sark, even while he was still living, was strewn with women – and, oddly, quite a few good-looking men as well – just begging Sark to “OMG! Take me _now_!”

Happy that things had worked out so well, Marshall slipped from the shadows just as Sark was opening the door to his car. He also almost slipped when he tripped over a rather enthusiastic fangirl, who was desperately trying to cling to the leg of Sark’s finely-tailored suit, but thankfully Marshall managed to recover his menacing poise before Sark noticed him.

“Become my unholy Childe of the Night!” Marshall announced dramatically when he had Sark’s full attention. He bared his fangs and made oogedy-boogedy gestures with his hands.

Sark’s brow creased slightly. “Mr. Flinkman.” A pointed pause. “Is there any particular reason you’re dressed up in a purple cape?”

“It’s not purple,” Marshall insisted. “It’s black. It’s my vampire cape.”

Sark frowned. “That is most certainly purple. One might even say lavender.”

It took Marshall a moment to recover. “The Romans used purple as a symbol of imperial power,” he insisted. “In fact, back before I became an unholy Childe of the Night and I was running op-tech, I found purple worked well to—”

“It appears to be pink, as well.” Sark frowned further. “In fact, it looks like the cape that woman wore in the old cartoon show—”

“Right, right, enough of that.” Marshall waved his hands in a frantic effort to distract Sark from that train of thought. “So, whaddaya say?”

“Pardon?”

“Want to be my unholy Childe of the Night?” Marshall asked hopefully. “See, this guy named Frank turned me so that we could play Nintendo together, but then he said ‘your momma’ to these nameless thugs and they staked him, and I’ve been hiding for the last two weeks because pretty much every single other vampire out there is scarier than I am. Plus, I miss the tasty virgins.” He eyed the fangirl crawling across the tarmac to Sark’s leg hungrily.

“Well, I’m quite certain _that_ wasn’t one of the plethora of theories discussed by the water cooler to explain your abrupt departure from work.” Sark looked vaguely disbelieving. Which consisted entirely of looking slightly more condescending than he usually did.

“Is that a yes or a no?” Marshall was confused.

“I’d rather not have you suck out my throat, if it’s all the same to you.” Sark opened his car door.

“B-But…think of it!” Marshall pleaded. “You can kill anyone you want, anytime, and women will just scream for you to do it more!”

Sark kicked aside the rather persistent fangirl, who’d reattached herself to his pant leg. “I suffer from that affliction already.”

Marshall frowned. “Oh right. Well…how about this? You can be immortal and good-looking forever! And, c’mon, I _really_ need a badass mofo to—”

Sark hadn’t really been paying attention to the last sentence, though, because with the previous, he’d instantly presented his neck up in offering. Marshall happily bit in, and they did the blood sucky thing or whatever it takes to turn someone into a vampire in this verse.

After he was done, Marshall dumped Sark’s body in the back seat of the Mercedes and offered the fangirl a ride in the passenger seat so that she could be Sark’s first meal. The fangirl decided it was entirely worth it and hopped right in. Marshall promptly drove home and really hoped Sark wouldn’t care about that ding in the door. Ah well, if Sark complained, Marshall could always telepathically whap him upside the head the way Frank used to.

Right on the stroke of midnight (for drama’s sake), Sark awoke as vampires are wont to, preened about prettily for a while, and proceeded to eat his fangirl. She enjoyed the experience very much.

Marshall, however, realized within ten minutes of Sark’s awakening that he might have made a calculated error in turning Sark. Because, while Sark was certainly a badass mofo, Marshall had forgotten that he was also obsessively full of himself. Instantly Sark made a bee-line for the mirror and, only mildly put out by his lack of reflection, began primping in front of it.

Marshall considered him for a while, then decided that even while primping Sark still looked like a badass mofo. Just a very… _pretty_ badass mofo. Maybe this would work out after all.

“You look just great,” Marshall assured him since Sark couldn’t see it for himself. “Now how about we scare off those thugs at the mall?”

“Mmm…go on,” Sark purred happily.

“The thugs? Well, they’re the ones who—”

“No,” Sark interrupted. “The part about how great I look.”

There was simply nothing for it. Marshall was obliged by the very universe itself, in fact. So he whapped Sark upside the head telepathically.

Sark looked confused by what had happened and then very grumpy. He pouted prettily as Marshall insisted that they go to take out the goons now, until penalty of whapping Sark upside the head telepathically repeatedly.

Sark, concerned for the absolute perfection that was his hair, agreed.

They found the thugs in the same mall Marshall had found them last time. Apparently, they _still_ hadn’t figured out why there weren’t cheerleaders there at night after the mall had closed. Confident in his newfound badass mofo companion, Marshall returned to Wayne’s Costume Emporium (And Party Supplier) to retrieve the tiara he’d been thinking about ever since he’d left it behind. He wouldn’t _wear_ the tiara, of course, because that would interfere with the whole evil vampire thing. But he would keep it with him as a souvenir of sorts, a reminder of the good old days with Frank. Or maybe Sark would want to wear it. It _was_ very pretty, after all.

They exited the door, Marshall with tiara in hand and Sark walking with what looked rather scarily like a model strut. And, what do you know it, the goons were back.

“Check it out,” said #1, “it’s dork and…” He frowned, unsure of how to categorize Sark. On the one hand, Sark looked exactly like those drama queens he’d beat up in high-school. On the other hand, Sark was wearing a gun, an expensive Armani, and looked like a badass mofo. It was quite a conundrum, indeed. Even though, contrary to the entire thug gang’s beliefs, a ‘conundrum’ was not actually a percussive instrument.

“Give us your lunch money, nerd,” another thug spoke up. “And…uh…” This one also frowned at the not-percussive-instrument that was Sark.

Proudly, Marshall patted Sark on the back. “It’s all you.”

“Hey, man,” one of the thugs said, “you want trouble?”

And that’s when Marshall realized that Sark had yet another talent he’d entirely forgotten about when he’d turned him. Because, among Sark’s other spy abilities, the one that perhaps stood out most prominently was his ability to flee any situation, no matter how difficult. Sark’s escaping abilities in life had been extraordinary, but in unlife, they had become finally honed. Even before the word ‘trouble’ had been fully uttered, Sark was already escaping, Marshall in hand, winding along an infinitely complex maze of paths through the mall that would eventually lead to safety and looking damn pretty while he did it. They escaped faster than the eye could see, even – Marshall would have said had he not known it was a scientific impossibility – faster than the speed of light itself. Almost instantly, they were safe at home once more, Marshall with tiara in hand and the thugs far, far away and thoroughly baffled as to what had just happened.

Sark merely yawned, as though nothing extraordinary had occurred, and returned to his non-reflection in the mirror.

Marshall just shrugged. Whatever worked.

Book Four: Sydney the Dominatrix

  
It had taken four tries to finally get Sark to kill the random thugs. The first three times, one of them had uttered the ‘tr’-word, and Sark’s knee-jerk escaping instinct had taken over. The fourth time, the ‘snappy’ comeback had only been “uh…I’d like to see you try it!” Sark promptly had, putting 47 bullets into each thug’s skull. Marshall had then been happily able to shove wooden stakes through all their chests. It was fitting revenge for Frank.

Sark, however, now in killing mode, hadn’t been content with that and had felt the need to strew the thugs’ innards about the yard in fanciful patterns. Marshall had watched, flinching instinctively, as Sark snapped each and every bone, all with that steely-eyed glare that made him look either like he was hypnotized by the sight of his victims’ blood or was a deer trapped in the headlights. The headlights of destruction, just because it’s fun to mix metaphors.

Marshall was seriously beginning to have some qualms about the overall intelligence of taking someone who was already a sociopath, and turning them into a vampire. Fortunately, Sark’s vanity kept him in front of the empty mirror most of the time.

Marshall had gleefully explained his developing theory on the physical properties of light refraction, as it related to vampires. Sark had been too busy staring at his non-self to care one way or another what Marshall was rambling about. Marshall had even showed Sark the very interesting property that, while vampires couldn’t appear in mirrors, they could be photographed and video-taped with devices that _used_ mirrors for recording. Marshall had dubbed this portion of his theory the ‘uneducated vampire authors’ principle.

Sark had instantly grasped the most important concept – that he could take pictures of himself – and had promptly eaten a drugstore clerk and run off with a dozen packs of Polaroid film. As a result, Sark’s side of their lair had become plastered with hundreds of photos of himself. He would often lie back on the bed, reclining aesthetically against the pillows, and gaze at himself for hours.

Then Marshall had pointed out that if Sark used a digital camera, the rate at which he took pictures of himself wouldn’t be limited by film. Sark had taken to the idea immediately, and the digital printed pictures had quickly surpassed the Polaroid ones.

Marshall couldn’t be happier with how well the two of them were bonding. And to think that the cool kids in school had never picked him for kickball. Not that he was any good at kickball, but ha! Now he and Sark were buddies (in the sense that he could whap Sark upside the head telepathically anytime Sark might choose not to be his buddy), and Sark was cooler than all of them put together.

However, one problem Sark _did_ have was his obsession with Sydney Bristow.

It was the one thing Sark did besides preening, staring at himself, running away, and killing things in a violent and disturbing manner. Because, as everyone knew, Sark had made a few flirtatious comments to Sydney in the past, and that automatically meant that he was secretly madly in love with her.

In truth, Sark wasn’t madly in love with anyone but himself, but he was rather madly in love with the _idea_ that he was madly in love with Sydney. He firmly approved of himself possessing the best of everything the world had to offer, and Sydney was certainly the best woman on the planet. He knew this because her name was first in the opening credits.

Marshall had wavered for a while on whether or not to force Sark to leave Sydney alone by whapping him upside the head telepathically. However, Marshall finally decided not to stop him, based on the fact that Sydney Bristow was really fucking hot.

And so another vampire entered their fold.

Sydney had, of course, had a huge state funeral with endless weeping mourners and some moments that were supposed to prove that she and Vaughn belonged ‘2getha 4eva!’ but had really only succeeded in having abysmal dialogue. That night, however, her grave was virtually deserted, and the two vampires waited anxiously.

Marshall stood at the foot of Sydney’s grave, fighting the urge to fiddle with his cape. Every minute or so, his cape would start to feel too tight, and he’d loosen it, only to realize the next minute that it was _too_ loose. The life of a vampire was fraught with such perils.

Sark, for his part, had gotten himself on top of a nearby mausoleum and was lounging prettily atop it, one arm artfully hanging over the edge. There had been two fangirls below, squeeing, earlier, and Marshall and Sark had sucked their blood for a lovely nightcap.

Finally, the earth stirred, and Sark actually bothered to get to his feet and wait beside Marshall as Sydney arose…

She emerged from the earth in a violent explosion of soil to reveal that she was dressed, not in the conservative dress she’d been buried in, but in full-out leather bondage gear. Six black leather straps covered her chest, leaving more exposed than they concealed, and creating cleavage that looked as though it would pop out of the top strap at any moment. Marshall and Sark were certainly both hoping it would. She wore a black leather thong that had to be excruciatingly uncomfortable, even to the undead, and black knee-high boots with five inch stiletto heels which were, you guessed it, entirely leather. In her left hand, she held a riding crop, and in her right was a spiked collar and leash. Her hair had somehow turned black and was spiked up so that it was a serious hazard to anyone whose eyes got too near to her head.

Demonstrating the first of her newfound vampire abilities, Sydney actually managed to walk in the five-inch stilettos without breaking an ankle. More than walked, she _strutted_. As she walked, the second of her vampire powers became apparent as her hair metamorphosed into a bright purple mohawk for a moment, before settling on a three-foot long black high ponytail.

“Either of you boys up for a ride?” she asked, brandishing the leash.

Marshall gulped and took a nervous step back.

Sark merely purred.

Sydney knew where she was needed. “How ‘bout it, handsome?” she asked, stroking Sark’s cheek with the riding crop.

“Mmm, call me that again,” he requested.

She smiled wickedly. “Sure thing, gorgeous. Just put on this collar and…” She kicked his legs out from under him so that he fell to his knees before her. One stilettoed heel came up to rest on his shoulder. “Lick. My. Boot.”

Still shivering from being called ‘gorgeous’, Sark proceeded to lick the black leather, slowly and seductively.

“Aww, yeah,” Sydney approved. “Use that pretty little tongue. Lick it clean.”

Marshall looked uncomfortable. “Psst: Sark?”

“Mmm?” Sark inquired, only half listening.

“You don’t have to do what she says,” Marshall reminded him. “You sired her, so you can just whap her.”

“I’m perfectly aware of that,” Sark informed him coolly. And returned to licking Sydney’s boot.

Marshall shrugged. At least he’d tried. And then he promptly fled the scene before Sydney asked Sark to lick her _elsewhere_ , and this story lost its PG13 rating.

Book Five: Vaughn the Wooden

  
Despite the fact that Sydney just _loved_ to collar Sark, tie him up, and ride him until dawn (because Anne Rice’s bizarre notion that vampires can’t get hard-ons has been shunned in this fic; I eschew it!), her One Twue Soulmate was still Vaughn. If Vaughn knew that Sydney liked to whip Sark on a nightly basis and make him call her ‘Master’, he might have rethought the whole soulmates thing, but he didn’t, and so when Sydney came to him with tears in her eyes and a request to join her immortality like the Twue Soulmates they were, Vaughn had no choice but to look constipated for a bit and then say yes.

Sark probably would have prevented this if, at the time, he hadn’t been chained upside-down in the dungeon on the rack, with a voice recording of Sydney saying “you’re so beautiful” on repeat to placate him. But that’s beside the point.

The point is that that evening Marshall woke up, unchained Sark, and the two of them discovered they had a new vampire in their midst. As Vaughn slept, the speculation began: Just what kind of vampire _would_ the Boy Scout be? There was such potential in him. Frankly, Marshall was a bit worried Vaughn would turn into Vaughn the Valiant, and he’d buy a black leather jacket and enough hair gel so that his hair would stick straight up, and then he’d go around staking their own kind.

Sark, somewhat displeased to see that Sydney had found something to do other than compliment him on his stunning perfection, had suggested they stake him then and there.

But Sydney had the riding crop and she was mad. Before their little scuffle had sorted itself out, Vaughn awoke.

The three of them paused, waiting with baited breath to see what he would do…

Slowly, Vaughn stretched and sat up. His tongue shifted in his mouth, and he frowned when he realized he had fangs there. His brow furrowed even further as he got up off of the bier Sydney had placed him on, took one step, two…and then halted mid-stride.

The rest of the clan exchanged puzzled looks and approached him slowly.

But Vaughn didn’t move. His wooden personality had, literally, frozen him as still as a statue.

Sydney had raged at what he’d become. True, he was ‘wooden’ in every sense, so she had no difficulty enjoying herself with him, but he just _wouldn’t move_. Marshall had stayed clear of her rages during this period, as had Sark when he’d looked away from the mirror long enough to remember what was going on around him.

But, finally, after a month of Vaughn not moving an inch, Sydney had been forced to accept the inevitability that he wasn’t ever going to move. Her first clue should probably have been that she’d screwed Sark right in front of his face, and he hadn’t even reacted. Well, maybe an extra furrow had appeared on his brow. She’d lost track of those.

So one night, she approached Vaughn where he stood in the center of their lair, gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and carefully moved his arm so that it jutted out into the space before him. The arm stayed where she’d placed it. Satisfied, she slipped off her red leather jacket and hung it on his arm.

There.

He was still her Vaughn, steady, sturdy, and always there when she needed him. Especially when she needed a coat-rack. Soon, Sark’s coat was hanging on Vaughn’s other arm, and Sydney’s eyes held tears of joy that her love had found a valued place in their clan.

She’d suggested that Marshall hang his cape on Vaughn too, to make him feel truly welcome, but Marshall had gasped in horror at the idea and clutched his precious cape even closer to himself. Which was when Sydney had first bothered to really look at the cape for the first time.

“Hey, didn’t She-Ra used to wear—?” she began.

“No! Absolutely not!” Marshall insisted nervously, cutting her off before he fled the room.

Sydney frowned in confusion.

“It’s best not to ask,” Sark advised her in confidence.

She’d smiled at that. “Are you ready to be my good little puppy dog, scrumptious?” she whispered against his ear.

“Oh yes… Tell me how good I am,” he agreed, snapping his collar in place.

So Sydney fucked him on the sofa, with her One Twue Soulmate Coat-Rack Wuv looking on, and unlife was bliss.


End file.
